


Vacuity

by MapleMooseMuffin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: And sometimes that's too much, Coping, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure how that happened but, Light Angst, M/M, Melancholy, Nudity, Shiro's half Norwegian, Space is huge and empty and quiet, or more so, sort of touch-starved Shiro, taking comfort in human touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleMooseMuffin/pseuds/MapleMooseMuffin
Summary: Shiro stands invariably on the observation deck, looking out at the vast expanse of solar systems and galaxies as they eerily drift past, indifferent to the journey of the ship, and its prophesized heroes of the universe. Not a sound can be heard beyond the walls of the ship, and not a sound is being made within. The engines do not hum, the lights do not buzz, the ship does not breathe the way an Earth-made ship would, the way the Galra cruisers did. The royal castle was made to leave its guests in total peace, and it succeeds. There is nothing more peaceful or silent than these halls, besides death itself.In the silence, Shiro can’t escape the sound of his own heartbeat, a gentle rhythm in the back of his mind reminding him of how passively alive he is. It makes him uncomfortable. It makes him feel far too alone.------When Shiro is lost at sea, Keith is there to show him the way home.





	Vacuity

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd because I didn't want to bother my beta with something so self-indulgent during the holidays.
> 
> Enjoy~

            The most overwhelming thing about space is its silence. The clouds of faded reds and dusty purples, littered with their white pinpoint freckles of stars, are impressive, and drive men to tears or dumbstruck awe back on Earth, sure, but Shiro has found that it isn’t the visuals so much as the stellar music movies pair with them that makes the scene so ceaselessly breathtaking. That’s not to say space isn’t beautiful. Space is the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen, and no matter how much of it he sees, he will never get used to it.  
  
              But the silence is so much stronger than that.  
  
            It isn’t a winter morning kind of silence, when the sun is just brushing the horizon with a muted orange, bleeding out into pastel blue, and the snowdrifts muffle the world, sapping all the sound out of the air in favor of their pervasive chill. In the midst of January, the ice in the air is audible where nothing else is, the seemingly endothermic presence of snow filling every sense with its cold nature. On those mornings, the air can be heard as it drifts about and nips at exposed skin. In space, the cold is voiceless, and still.  
  
            It’s a fact that’s compounded by the ship nights, after the mice have gone to sleep in the Princess’s chambers, and the rest of the castle is nestled in their rooms, settling in if they aren’t already asleep. Shiro stands invariably on the observation deck, looking out at the vast expanse of solar systems and galaxies as they eerily drift past, indifferent to the journey of the ship, and its prophesized heroes of the universe. Not a sound can be heard beyond the walls of the ship, and not a sound is being made within. The engines do not hum, the lights do not buzz, the ship does not breathe the way an Earth-made ship would, the way the Galra cruisers did. The royal castle was made to leave its guests in total peace, and it succeeds. There is nothing more peaceful or silent than these halls, besides death itself.  
  
            In the silence, Shiro can’t escape the sound of his own heartbeat, a gentle rhythm in the back of his mind reminding him of how passively alive he is. It makes him uncomfortable. It makes him feel far too alone.  
  
            Logically, Shiro knows that down the hall, up three flights of stairs, and to the left, there are others on this ship. They are comfortable in their rooms, hopefully nestled down for sleep after a long day of training. But the silence is powerful and isolating, invasive enough to drown out his common sense and replace it with the thick, dark void of the abyss before him. There’s an intrusive thought lingering about there, calling for him to impulsively jump out into space, but unlike the silence, this is easy to ignore. He’s grown accustomed to the meaningless urge of self-destruction, and it soon fades away. The silence will not.  
  
            The sound of the automatic door _shick_ -ing open makes Shiro jump, his heart launched into his throat and choking him off as he whips around to see whomever has come in. Keith stands in the doorway, looking surprised and then guilty as their eyes meet. Shiro takes a moment to stare, simply breathe, and calm his pulse.  
  
            Keith’s bangs are parted and sticking to his face, the rest of his hair sleek and shiny with moisture that occasionally drips onto the faded t-shirt he’s wearing. He must have come from the showers then, probably just after finishing a round on the training deck. He’s never been one to sit still, for as long as Shiro has known him, and it seems their year apart changed nothing in that regard.  
  
            Shiro can still feel the buzz of receding adrenaline in his veins as Keith's voice softly cuts through the air.  
  
            “I didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
            He lingers there by the door, which has closed itself behind him, posture loose from the workout and the warm shower. Alive and easy, despite the concern in his eyes, and the uncertainty on his face. It’s the expression he wears when facing an unfamiliar social situation, when he isn’t sure what is expected of him, or what he’s allowed to do. Shiro, however, is feeling a bit more at ease, now that he isn’t alone.  
  
            “I’m alright,” he promises. “It’s okay.”  
  
            Keith doesn’t seem consoled, but his expression shifts to a more cautious one as he slowly begins to approach. Shiro waits for him.  
  
            When they are only a few feet apart, Keith tilts his head in well-meaning curiosity, and asks “What are you doing in here?”  
  
            Shiro offers a small shrug, and gestures back to the window with a nod.  
  
            “Just looking out. I wasn’t tired.” He never is.  
  
            Keith’s eyes flick to the window, then back to Shiro’s face. He raises a hand between them, reaching – his palm is warm when he settles it against Shiro’s forearm, a little humid from the shower, and so decidedly alive. Shiro caves into the touch, pressing against Keith’s hand and reaching for his arm in turn, chasing that sensation. Keith blinks up at him, the guilt of startling him replaced by soft surprise.  
  
            “Is everything alright?” he asks. He tightens his grip a little, the human touch more firm and protective as Keith leans in, probably unaware he’s even doing so. Shiro finds himself leaning away, even as he presses into that hand, and swallows before he can answer.  
  
            “I’m, fine.” The pause comes through unrestrained, and unnatural, furrowing Keith’s brow until Shiro has to glance away. He’d thought he was alright. The isolation of space was nothing new and certainly nothing unique – Lance had admitted once, when Shiro found him here, that the expanse of space scared him as well, now that they were on this end of it. It was too great for human comprehension, but it was also par for the course when you were a defender of the universe, and Shiro hadn’t thought much of it beyond these nights spent at the window sill. Staring out into the silence.  
  
            Now, though, he isn’t so sure. With the press of Keith’s skin against his own, Shiro can feel a stark contrast between the comfort Keith’s presence has brought, and the unchecked stress that lingers beneath.  
  
            “Let’s go to bed,” Keith says, but the arch of his brow marks it as a question. Shiro looks down at him, taking in the feel of Keith’s battle worn hand against his skin, and nods, the ghost of a smile drifting over his lips.  
  
            “Thanks,” Shiro mumbles without meaning to. Neither of them are certain what exactly he means, but Keith returns the nod and says “Yeah,” stepping to the side so they stand shoulder to shoulder. Shiro leans into him, seeking his warmth, until Keith wraps both hands around his human arm and nudges him forward, toward the door.  
  
            They are quiet on the walk to the room – whomever’s room they choose – gentle breaths and even footsteps chasing off that haunting lack of sound, and the aching void it brought with it. Every heartbeat is quieter now, with Keith at his side, and he can feel the other’s pulse where his palm is pressed against his wrist. It’s more intimate than holding hands, more personal than a kiss. They are interwoven, sharing space and heat and life until Shiro’s bedroom door _shicks_ closed behind them, until they stand at the side of his bed.  
  
            Keith unwinds them, but grasps Shiro’s hands – the metal one as well – and looks up with his owl eyes. Always staring, watching, and learning. Studying everything until he can understand. Shiro has always admired the rapt attention Keith pays the world, but right now he needs contact, and can’t stand to be apart.  
  
            A light tug is all it takes to bring Keith to his chest, dropping the younger’s hands in favor of wrapping his arms around him, and now Shiro feels the brunt of it all, the pent up stress that’s been settled on his shoulders like an ambitiously weighted barbell – full of purpose, but pushing him too far past his limit. Keith is a small but solid weight, anchoring him down enough for Shiro to release some to of that tension in a drawn out sigh, his head bending to rest on top of Keith’s. It’s so easy to sag down against him, to pass off some of the weight, to know that Keith will gladly bear it for him.  
  
            Keith tightens the hug, pulling him even closer, until Shiro has the presence of mind to wonder if he’s not crushing the other. If he is, Keith shows no signs of it. He lightly rubs at Shiro’s back instead, patiently waiting for him to recenter himself, and it’s that little motion that Shiro latches onto, closing his eyes and feeling the steady rhythm of Keith’s hand, out of time with the rhythm of his breathing. The sound of it soothes his mind, the metronomic rustle of air flowing in and out, and the soft swish of splayed fingers over fabric. The occasional tap of a shoe as Keith adjusts himself, standing on his toes in order to better reach, and the patter of a stray water droplet as it hits the metal floor. Keith smells like mineral infused water and the icy, planty scented Altean shampoo they’ve all been using here. Beneath that, he smells warm and earthy, like a sunlit patch of the backyard in the summertime. Familiar and comforting. Like home.  
  
            When Shiro finally pulls back, he feels much more at ease. Keith looks up at him, slowly lowering down from his toes, and offers a tiny smile. His hands continue their motion, rubbing up and down Shiro’s sides now in a loving gesture. Shiro leans forward to press a kiss into his forehead. Soft and grateful.  
  
            Keith is smiling wider when he asks, “Wanna lay down now?”  
  
            Shiro hesitates. He brushes his palms along the other’s frame, mimicking Keith’s gentle gesture. Keith is so comfortingly warm, so alive, like a hearth that carries the home through a snowstorm and brings everyone closer together on the holidays. _Hygge_ , his mother called it, that feeling of peace and love and gentle fire. A kind of quiet that is alive and warm, entirely opposite to the dead space beyond the castle walls. It is there in Keith’s presence, glowing on his skin. Now more than ever, Shiro needs to feel that warmth.  
  
            Nestling their foreheads against one another, Shiro doesn’t quite meet Keith’s eyes as he asks, “Would you mind… if we took off our clothes?” He feels the heat inching up his neck like fire ants marching, coloring the tips of his ears because he knows what it sounds like, knows how forward it seems, when in truth he is just weak, and vulnerable, and seeking a much simpler comfort than sexual attention. He glances back awkwardly in time to watch the pink blush bubbling up to the surface of Keith’s face as well, but Keith is still smiling, and his breath is warm against Shiro’s face as he breathes out just as evenly as before. Unfazed, unminding.  
  
            “Anything you want,” he promises. Shiro has half a mind to warn him against swearing away his consent like that, to remind him to think things through before saying whatever his heart tells him to, but then Keith is sliding a hand along his stubble, and lifting up onto his toes again, and Shiro’s mind shifts elsewhere.  
  
            He loops his arms around that slim waist in time to the soft, wet press of surprisingly cool lips against his own, and time is slowed, drawn out and hinging on the pace of their kiss. The firm pressure insists that he is here, solid and living, while Keith’s fingers brush against the fuzzy hairs of his undercut. Their breaths tickle each other’s cheeks while they continue to press, constant and insisting. One kiss, drawn out over a thousand beats, until Shiro is the one to break away.  
  
            Keith lowers back down, trailing his hands with him, until careful fingers pinch the edge of Shiro’s collar, and the zipper holding it up. The sound of the metal teeth adds to the sounds of their life, here, in this space they’ve carved out for themselves, as Shiro sheds the fabric and the responsibilities weighing him down.  
  
            When they’re both standing bare before each other, skin tinted a faint blue from the dimming castle lights, Keith steps in again to wrap his arms around Shiro’s torso, and press his skin to his. A light peck to the collar bone, a soft sigh against his chest. The contact breathes new life into him, a welcoming, peaceful sensation unlike the detached, passive beating of his heart when he was alone. Shiro winds his arms around Keith’s slighter frame and nestles back down against the other, unwilling to part for all the universe has to offer.  
  
            Keith tugs against his back, stepping backwards toward the bed, and like an anchor in the night, drags Shiro away from the swirling void, and back to his own shore.

**Author's Note:**

> Hygge is a Nordic word that doesn't translate well into English. The best way to get a sense for it is to type it into [Google images](https://www.google.com/search?q=hygge&client=firefox-b-1&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjXpfK-kaLYAhXEmOAKHbe2AOsQ_AUICygC&biw=1536&bih=732), but it has been described as the cozy, comfortable feeling one gets when settled in a blanket with a hot cup of tea or cocoa, good friends, and a good book. It's a peaceful, happy, warm sort of quiet -- very chill. 
> 
> I wasn't sure where I was going with this piece, but I hope you enjoyed the ride, at least. 
> 
> Talk to me about Sheith on my [tumblr](http://maple-moose-muffin.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Take care, friends, and happy holidays. ~<3


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